


Minos's Bull

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drunk Dean Winchester, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Sex Toys, Size Kink, error 404: no stereotypical top/bottom dynamics found, recently established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: Dean shows Sam an image of a near comically large dildo, joking about who would even buy shit like that cause no way is it fitting anywhere, so why waste your money, right??? But Sam turns all shades of shady and hiding something... Baby has a size kink and a secret stash of massive cocks to play with. Oh no...
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: ficlet prompts [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 5
Kudos: 107





	Minos's Bull

**Author's Note:**

> As advertised, writing prompts had been open over on tumblr in celebration of my newly triple-digit work count. I'm posting all those lovelies on here as well for the sake of integrity and accessibility.

“Like, HOW?”

Dean extends his free hand towards the laptop screen all dramatical and throws himself back into his chair. He scoffs with his glass habitually by his mouth.

“Clearly, people who buy this shit never ran into a REAL werewolf. Freaks.”

Dean drinks. Dean shakes his head.

He repeats, “ _Freaks_ ,” as he clicks back to the _MERCH: ALL_ tab.

Sam’s gotten real quiet over at his end of the table. Which Dean prefers in most scenarios, but day-drinking-him requires (and clearly deserves) some verbal attention.

It’s been days since either of them left the bunker—goddamn research for this case Donna dug up and it’s going nowhere, so far. The isolation should bother Dean more than it does, probably.

“The stink of ’em alone, am I right?” Nothing. “Right, Sam?”

“I’m—yeah, sure.” A barely-there flick of eyes towards Dean that ends up on the bottle to his side. “Dude.”

“What?”

“It’s like eleven in the morning.”

“It’s also a free country.”

Sam snaps, “Great,” as he slams his current read shut, gathers his tablet and notes and gets up from his seat. “Great, you know—frankly, if you wanna keep raging about monster pussy and drink yourself to an early death? Feel free. But I’m not in the mood.”

Dean frowns, barks back how, “Whatever,” and, once Sam’s stomped off into the depths of their concrete home, hollers, “College life was WASTED on you, Maria Magdalene!”

There’s no reproach, no nothing. Just the door to Sam’s room slamming shut, far-off, and Dean grumbles to himself as he refills his glass, turns back towards his research-gone-wrong.

God, he can’t even remember how he ended up on that site.

Search algorithms are an evil, evil entity.

The longer his poor, innocent eyes are confronted with various shapes and sizes of colorful silicone, the more his frown is rooted in ‘how the hell would that even fit anywhere?’ rather than ‘why the hell would anyone think this is hot?’.

The transition pussyfoots past his fading conscious thought.

Personally, he blames the fleshlights.

He snorts, “Dragons, sure,” to nobody but himself and doesn’t find it in him to even screw the lid back on the bottle.

~

Dean wouldn’t have had to do this if Sam, like a normal person, would have texted back to his very simple and straight-forward request for ‘PIZZA?’. But Dean’s brother isn’t a normal person, never has been, not really; and Dean’s not too mad about that. How could he? They’re in the same boat.

He even _knocks_. Hollers, “Sam?” and “Pizza?” and passingly wonders how the hell his mouth manages to put a slur into any of those syllables. Wonders more about the music curling out into the corridor from inside Sam’s room.

Sam doesn’t put on music. Like, ever.

And maybe it’s his fault and he should have seen something like that coming, but Dean’s found the bottom of the bottle and the door handle moves uninhibited when he pushes it down, together with another, last try for, “Sammy?” and god, his face is real fucking numb at this point.

Dean’s reflexes have been reduced enough that, upon the sight unfolding in front of him past the meek barrier that is (was) a closed door, cannot retract himself, cannot even mumble an excuse or anything.

All his brain can manage is making him stay on his feet and burst out in laughter.

Sam curses, “DEAN, Jesus!” and nearly falls off the bed in his panicked attempts to cover himself, and somehow that’s worse and even funnier at the same time.

“Oh my—oh my word, SAM.” Dean can barely get the words out over holding his own stomach and trying to breathe. It’s—a lot. Literally. “That’s, that’s—”

“Get OUT!”

“—that’s just WOW,” finishes Dean, who pulls the door closed behind himself.

He’s still laughing his ass off but Sam’s embarrassment is too endearing, his humiliation too delicious. Beet-red and stark naked, he glares up from where he’s found a hiding spot on the floor beside his bed, teeth gritted and all.

Dean offers, wiping at his eyes, “I didn’t know. Jesus.”

“Privacy?”

“What? I knocked,” he points out, now on the still-warm bed, the halfway torn-off sheets. The air is thick with high-quality lube and whatever-it-is-Sam-calls-music-apparently. “‘Not in the mood’ my ass.”

“If you’re gonna be a jerk, leave,” says Sam, and it’s half a dare, half a plea.

His face is tense like his hand, fisted into the sheets for support.

Dean repeats, dumbly, “I didn’t know,” and pets at Sam’s arm after he’s rubbed it across his own face, again.

Sam considers him like a prissy girlfriend. Unfailingly, Dean’s mouth breaks into a different kind of smile for that.

His insides are doing that thing that feels like it’d be hella embarrassing to found out about.

“Pretty big.”

Sam warns, “Dean.”

“That kinda thing turns you on? I didn’t know,” he says, and he’s leaning in close now, so close Sam’s making a face at how badly his booze-and-coffee-and-nothing-else breath must be.

Their foreheads touch for a brief moment before Dean benevolently buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck instead.

He hears Sam’s, “Guess I’m a freak, huh?” and soothes, “Know I didn’t mean it like that,” and Sam’s skin feels good against his lips, his mouth, his cheeks.

Sam’s chest hitches with his choked-off scoff. “We both know what you meant.”

“Hm,” makes Dean. He smiles, unseen. “You gonna lemme see?”

Sam hesitates.

“’Course I wanna see,” finishes Dean, and he may be too drunk for this.

Which might be the main reasoning for Sam’s guardedness at this point.

And it’s right. Dean doesn’t deserve any of this.

Is taken aback even more, then, upon Sam shifting and giving in and Dean can mumble out a gruff, “Fuck,” and not a single thing more.

“Watching is just as freaky as doing it, y’know,” hears Dean, somehow pushed back down onto the bed and Sam’s climbed him and Dean’s hands find Sam’s hips in too-familiar habit.

Sam’s got one arm behind himself. The sudden pressure of the heavy silicone base settling down where Dean’s dick was starting to get interested behind the fly of his jeans has Dean’s mouth slurring open.

His hips hitch in instinct and it’s Sam’s turn to smirk mean at him.

Sam gladly takes that opportunity.

“Lemme see.”

Sam scoffs, all love, and for a split-second, Dean thinks he’s leaning down to kiss him, but no.

Rocks gently back and forth like they’re fucking but they’re _not_.

“Fuck, lemme see.”

“See what?” teases Sam, his expression slowly morphing back into something resembling pleasure. Relaxation. That dark tint to his eyes Dean’s newfound obsession is to drown himself inside of, and that corner of a mouth twitches ever-so-slightly on the next downstroke, and Dean’s gonna lose it with this boy.

Dean manages, “See how you’re fucking yourself,” and Sam’s one free hand on his chest is so fucking soothing with how it bleeds all that warmth right through the layers of clothes.

“Thought it puts you off. Monster cock,” Sam adds, uselessly, shamelessly, and if Dean wasn’t drunk he’d flip him over and. And.

Do. Things.

God, he should go easier on the booze.

“It’s hot when it’s up your ass,” he tries, and it earns him that hand cupping his cheek instead of pressing down on his chest, thumbing at his stubble and the corner of his eye, his mouth.

Dean’s lips part in sheer and utter reflex.

Sam laughs, shortly and cruelly, before he bows further down to kiss his brother on the mouth.

Dean’s a good kisser. Even better when drunk, probably; and Sam does look that much more intoxicated after pulling back eventually, allowing them both to catch their breath, or stare into each other’s eyes; both.

Dean pants, “You like it big?” and Sam barely-nods. Only once, with his face so much older than it once was, with all those lines and years and it’s still aflame, still so soft for Dean.

A croaked, “Yeah,” and it’s Dean’s turn to pull him back in for another kiss.

“God, I wanna feel it—” slurred words and hands; a palm down Sam’s breastbone down to his navel and “—fuck, _Sam_ ,” and Dean hurts, physically.

Sam makes a casual effort out of bumping the massive toy into the tender palm of Dean’s hand from inside of his lower stomach.

Dean blabber-cries, “God,” again, and Sam chuckles, another shade of embarrassment now; Dean’s shy boy when you’d least expect it and Dean kisses that neck where he can reach it, rubs his hand down to fuck back at him. “God it’s so deep oh fuck Sammy—”

Honey-throated, “Wanna fuck me with it?” and Dean truly attempts to flip them, now.

Sam helps, graciously. Like an animal, deer-spider-cat-cub, still, like he’s still that gangly pimpled teenager too-attached to his big brother, too-awkward for anyone else.

Sam says, “Hm,” and, “Slow,” the second so beautiful with how it’s gasped over Dean’s hunger, into Dean’s mouth.

Dean’s got bad knees, good wrists.

“Fuck,” over Dean’s tongue, Dean’s teeth, and Dean growls in appreciation for Sam wrapping his legs around him instead of asking for ‘slow’ again. “Fuck, please.”

“Fuck, you’re such a slut,” runs from his mouth so easy; the base of that toy slippery in his hand but Dean manages to pump it deep—despite the pressure, the unheard-of depths of guts he’s filling-unfilling with every punch of his arm.

Again, “Please,” quiet and eager and it must hurt, can’t be _pleasant_ to be forced that wide and far and Dean grunts in extortion, in love.

“Should’ve told me,” growls Dean, sweat now beading on his forehead, across the endless span of his back, with his brother pliant and stiff-as-a-board below him, for him. “Gotta get you what you need. My fucking hand, huh? My _arm_?”

“ _Dean_ —”

Dean thinks he says, “You want that, huh?” shortly before Sam yanks at him, like a dog locking its jaws into a leg, an arm.

Clamps down around him, arms and legs and trembles apart and Dean grits, “ _Fuck_ ,” and does his best to ground his knees into the shitty too-hard mattress, to keep working his arm through the tremors of Sam’s insides while he comes apart right underneath him.

Tells his brother, “Jesus,” but Sam’s not vocal, held breath and waves upon waves of shivers.

Sam’s hold on him doesn’t subside.

Tightens, eventually, with Sam’s face securely tucked into the crook of Dean’s sweaty neck.

“Hey, hey. Easy there. Hey.”

Dean uses his thigh to keep the toy in place so he can wrap Sam into a hug instead. Can rock him through the worst of it; the pile-of-leaves trembles.

Dean hums, “You’re okay,” quiet and low, and there’s a few more moments of this. Simply this, them; holding on.

It’s Sam who peels them apart. Croaks through his sniffles and clips Dean’s shoulder upon him muttering something about him being a cute girl when he cries on dick like that.

Sam tells him, “Jerk,” and Dean’s got too much whiskey-dick going on to do much more than smile about that.


End file.
